The night before our tree adventure, we were so close to pulling into a grocery store parking lot and grabbing whatever pre-cut fir was leaning against the wall. Easy, quick, done.

But something tugged at me.

And to top it off, our oldest said, “Can we please wander the woods for our tree this year?”

That was it. Decision made.

So the next morning, we woke up a little festive and a little wild. We made a quick batch of cookies, poured hot chocolate into our Christmas mugs, bundled the kids in approximately 148 layers, grabbed snacks (this part matters later), and headed out for the forest.

We drove an hour to the edge of the national forest, filled with Hallmark-level expectations.

And then… we made Mistake #1:

We didn’t hand out snacks immediately. Rookie move.

We found our forest road, parked, and set out. About ten minutes into the great woodland adventure — just as my internal “Why did we do this?” thought began creeping in — the toddler started screaming, “I hungry!” and “BOOBS!!!” at a volume that felt certain to summon every predator within a three-mile radius.

(This is motherhood. There is no sugarcoating it.)

But we pressed on.

The trees were beautiful — towering, dramatic, rain-misted — and about fifty feet too tall. Every decent one we spotted led us to think, Let’s just keep walking. Maybe there’s something even better up ahead.

And of course… there always was.

From far away, each “perfect tree” looked magical.

Up close, we’d discover it was actually three trees braided together and roughly fifteen feet wide.

It was like chasing mirages through the desert — except colder, louder, and with more emotional hunger.

Eventually, with the toddler shrieking and me convinced we were about to attract a pack of wolves, we turned around.

And there it was.

The first tree we’d passed.

The one we’d shrugged at and walked right by.

It wasn’t tall or dramatic or Instagram-worthy.

It was just… perfect.

“I want to cut it,” I told my husband, feeling suddenly fierce and capable.

He handed me the saw, the kids gathered around, and I cut that tree down myself. The kids watched wide-eyed and narrating every move. When it finally tipped and fell, they gasped.

Then the big kids grabbed hold of the trunk and eagerly dragged it toward the van, pride radiating off of them.

Their little red cheeks.

Their determined faces.

Their joy in helping.

It was everything.

Back at the van, we pulled out the cookies and hot chocolate. Suddenly everyone was warm and happy and fed and peaceful — amazing how snacks are basically the reset button for childhood.

We all felt it at the same time:

This was worth it.

All of it.

The mud, the noise, the wandering, the almost-settling, the backtracking, the hungry raccoon toddler energy, the mirage trees — it all led to this sense of pride and satisfaction that no parking-lot tree could ever give us.

And when we got home?

That tree looked perfect in our living room.

We talked with the kids on the drive home about the why behind our choice — not just the adventure, but the intention. A pre-cut tree would have cost us five to eight times more, and we walked them through the simple math:

less than $10 for a forest permit vs. $60–$90 for a store-bought tree.

But it wasn’t only about the savings.

We wanted them to feel the connection between effort and reward — how working for something, putting in the steps, getting cold and tired and a little frustrated, makes the end result feel different. Better. More earned. More ours.

It’s so easy in our world to just grab whatever is convenient, to choose the fast option, the pre-packaged option, the option that asks nothing of us. But there’s something powerful in showing our kids what happens when you do the work instead of skipping to the outcome.

We walked, we searched, we problem-solved, we cut, we carried.

And because of that, we didn’t just bring home a tree —

we brought home a memory, a lesson, and something we all had a hand in creating.

Honestly?

It felt great.